


Threesome #1 - Quentin, Eliot, Eliot

by ceeainthereforthat



Series: Hedonism for Beginners [3]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Consensual Choking, Eliot Waugh's Canonically Huge Dick, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Face-Fucking, Feelings, HOLY FUCK TWO ELIOTS, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Quentin POV, Season One Shenanigans, Sharing sexual fantasies, Threesome - M/M/M, issues of consent around sexual assault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 12:31:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19295812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceeainthereforthat/pseuds/ceeainthereforthat
Summary: Quentin comes home after ten horrible days in Brakebills South. He's tired. He's angry. He's not ready for Eliot's surprise...But here they are anyway.





	Threesome #1 - Quentin, Eliot, Eliot

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. So my porn series had continuity, and because it had continuity, it grew plot, and so this story starts out ... not very porny at all. But the characters absolutely needed to talk seriously about serious things like consent and boundaries first.
> 
> If you just want the porn, hit control F, enter .o.O.o. and skip to the last one in the story. Enjoy!

_I flew all the way from Antarctica and boy, are my arms tired._ Quentin imagines saying it to Eliot, but first he has to make it across the Brakebills campus at three in the afternoon, no longer a long range flying Canada Goose but a Very. Naked. Supernerd, hunched in the bushes and waiting for the wide open lawn dotted with students to suddenly decide to go somewhere else. 

He deludes himself for five minutes before realizing that’s not going to happen. Quentin has to go with plan B - what would Eliot do? 

He knows. And so he stands up: head high, shoulders back, thinks _murder_ , and strolls out from behind the cover of the forest. 

“Morning,” he says to a group of women who are definitely, definitely sizing him up, and saunters to the physical kids cottage like he hasn’t a care in the world.

But that’s not true, is it? Alice is still hiding in the bushes, and he doesn’t know if he should talk to her about last night or let her alone but sooner or later they’re going to have to say something, and he’ll back her play if she wants to go to Dean Fogg about it because that was bullshit. It wasn’t fair. It violated consent. And Quentin has a boy—thing with Eliot. 

Maykovsky’s words echo in his head and he brushes them off, locking them away. He had no right to say that. No right to—You know what fuck that. Alice can back _his_ play. He’s going to the Dean, Alice or no Alice. 

Fuck Mayakovsky. He had no right to do that to them. No right at all. Quentin wasn’t a violent person. He wasn’t. But somebody needed to beat the hell out of that sonofabitch, and he’s surprised Penny didn’t do it even though he had no idea what the fuck Mayakovsky said to _him—_

The roofline of the cottage lies just ahead. He’s already bored with the wolf whistles and applause following him on his bareassed march across campus. All of them had to do this; they knew the drill. And Quentin doesn’t give a fuck any more.

He just wants to go home. He wants to go home, but he watches the outline of the cottage take shape with an uneasy tension. He’s tired. He feels sweaty, even if geese don’t sweat, and he wants a shower and maybe something to drink and someone to rub his temples and maybe to close his eyes and forget what that asshole said to him. 

But it’s sneaking around back there, and he’s not hurrying to the cottage even if he is naked as the day he was born. Eliot will be there, waiting for him to come home, and every time he remembers it, he has to fight back Mayakovsky’s voice in his head. 

He has to tell Eliot. Fuck. What’s he going to tell Eliot? _We did an animal transformation, and I was a fox, and Alice was a vixen, and we—we almost—anyway, can you come with me while I tell the Dean?_

Nothing happened. But he can’t talk to Alice, and his friend, his brittle, brilliant friend hid in her room and didn’t come out until it was time to leave the next morning, and he should have—he should have done something—

He sets a bare foot on the concrete slabs leading from the asphalt path that looped around the campus to the big old craftsman manor that housed the physical kids, and two people stand up from sitting on the front steps. Quentin stops walking to stare at them, openmouthed. 

It’s Eliot in his chambray blue shirt and coral tie tucked into a brown waistcoat and khaki trousers. And, it’s Eliot in pink and spring green under charcoal gray. They smile at the exact same instant, walking off the steps in unison, so precise it's chilling—they move like two bodies with the same mind.

They're wearing Eliot's clothes and Eliot's smile and Eliot's half-lidded, smouldering look, the one that makes Quentin go short of breath and forget what he was just about to do.

Only he's seeing it twice.

"Surprise," they say, and their voices are the same.

It’s exactly what Eliot said he would do. He should have expected it. Of course he’d plan something for when Quentin came home, and Mayakovsky’s voice buzzes in his memory like a mosquito and he might be coming home naked but he is tired and—

 _People like Eliot are empty inside. He chases thrills. Once you can’t keep up, you’ll be discarded_.

 _Fuck. Off_. He lifts his head and smiles, looking from one Eliot to the other, now that they’re right next to him. He reaches out and touches the Eliot on his right. Warm. Breathing and alive, with blood rushing just under the skin.

He touches the other Eliot. Identical. He can’t tell them apart. Eliot did this a surprise for him. A nice, sexy surprise and he’s…

He’s so tired.

“Wow,” Quentin says, and looks between them again. “I don’t know who to kiss hello first.”

The Eliot on the left pulls him in for a kiss, but he breaks off to look at Quentin. He brushes stray hair out of Quentin’s face and gives him a sheepish smile.

“You’re not up for this.”

“I was a goose,” Quentin says. “I’m sore. I’m tired. I’m so sorry, I just can’t.”

Both Eliots close in and now he’s caught between their gentle hands and kisses. “We’ll take care of you,” Eliot says. “Leave everything to us.”

.o.O.o.

One Eliot races up the stairs. The other Eliot guides him up to the second floor and into the bathroom, where he fills up the old enameled cast iron tub with water.

“Sit here.” Eliot points at a wooden stool that usually lives behind the sloping back of the tub, and pours Epsom salts in the running water. “Incoming.”

The other Eliot opens the door to the bathroom, carrying Quentin’s plaid flannel bathrobe and his bag of toiletries. “I should have known you’d be tired,” he says. “I slept for a day after I made it back from Brakebills South.”

“I’m messing up your plans.”

“My plan was to make you happy,” Eliot says, fishing around in the cabinets for—aw jeez. Bubble bath.

“So we’re still on plan,” Eliot says, taking out Quentin’s shampoo and soap and stuff. “we need some big kids lemonade. I’ll be right back.”

Quentin perches on the stool and watches as one Eliot turns the second floor bath chamber—a windowless room with a tub filled with sudsy sakura scented water, a walk-in shower a few feet beyond, and shelves cluttered with leftover bath products and clean but mismatched towels—into an escape. The other Eliot returns with a tall pitcher of lemonade (spiked with gin and St. Germain) and Eliot holds Quentin’s hand and helps him into the tub, warm enough to melt his muscles, and takes a seat behind the tub and buries his fingers in Quentin’s hair.

Quentin closes his eyes and his happy sigh fills the room. “That’s perfect.”

“Once we get you relaxed and clean, we’ll work on those muscles and then you can sleep. My bed or yours?”

“Yours is big enough for three,” Quentin says.

It’s uncanny. Quentin knows it is. But Eliot massages his scalp with oil and Eliot lifts one hand and gently shapes his nails and Quentin really, really likes this. A lot. He watches Eliot manicure his hand, focused intently on his task, and Eliot’s fingers rubbing little circles on his scalp is just so good he almost forgets the drink in his other hand, but he sips it and it’s perfect too and Eliot is so, so good to him. This feels so damn good. Exactly what he needs.

“Blissed right out,” Eliot says, and the hand massage, oh damn it’s beautiful. Every single metacarpal is relaxed, his phalanges are loose, and the head massage is a shampoo now, smelling like green apples.

“This is perfect,” Quentin says. “Just what I needed.”

“Good. Ten days with Mayakovsky would try a saint.”

Quentin his or a short laugh. “He was a dick to you too?”

“I might have thrown a chair at him,” Eliot says, “telekinetically.”

“Fuck. What did he do?”

“He told me that I was a degenerate,” Eliot said. “I called him a fucking homophobic piece of shit—“

“Which he is,” Quentin says.

“He tried to shove Margo into partnering up with this guy—shit, I don’t even remember his name—who was trailing after her everywhere she went. Clingy and desperate. So we pretended we were together to try and get rid of him, right? But Mayakovsky kept pairing them up.”

“Did he make them partner up for animal transformation?”

Eliot’s fingers go still. Quentin opens his eyes and meets Eliot’s. He’s not smiling at all. He’s watching Quentin very carefully, studying him in detail.

After a long moment, he says, “He tried, but I went with Margo.”

The tension in Eliot’s posture makes him stiff and careful, but Quentin pushes on. “Did you get turned into a fox?”

Eliot blanches. He draws his hands away from Quentin’s fingers, away from Quentin’s scalp. He flicks his gaze away, a muscle in his jaw twitching.

Then he looks back. “What did he do to you?”

“I was a fox,” Quentin slides his knees closer to his chest. “And Alice—“

“Oh Jesus,” Eliot whispers. "That bastard."

"Nothing happened."

"Enough happened," Eliot says from behind him. “It’s not your fault, Q. It’s not. I will tell you that a hundred times. Is Alice okay?”

“I don’t know,” Quentin says. “We didn’t...I ran. I took off when I—she smelled so good and I didn’t want to run but I did and Alice won’t talk to me now.”

"Okay. What do you want?" Eliot asks. "What can I do?"

"I don't want to be alone," Quentin says. "I don't want to feel alone—"

"Can I touch you?" the Eliots ask.

"Please."

They close in on Quentin, wrapping their arms around him. "You're not alone," Eliot whispers. "I'm here."

.o.O.o.

One or the other is always touching him--together they wash him, dry him off, comb his wet hair, and take him up to the third floor to lie in the middle of Eliot's wide bed. One Eliot cradles Quentin's head in his lap while caressing his face. The other Eliot massages his legs, careful and gentle.

"I'm telling Dean Fogg," Quentin says. "Alice can come with me if she wants to, but I'm going to tell him."

"Okay. Do you want me to come with you?"

"Would you do that?" Quentin looks up at Eliot, surprised.

"Look. I know you say nothing happened. But if someone slipped you a molly and you had sex with someone while you were high—“

"— Even if it was me—" the other Eliot says.

"—The person who drugged you committed sexual assault, and I wouldn't be too pleased with myself either."

Quentin looks at one Eliot, and then the other, and this should be a lot weirder than it is, but it's magic. "But we get drunk and have sex."

"We decide when we're sober that we're going to get drunk and have sex, though."

Quentin nods. "You're right."

"Goes for other drugs too," the Eliot massaging his legs says. "If you wanted to flip an E and have sex, I am down for that. But you have to decide you want to do that before you get high, and you can change your mind any time."

The Eliot caressing his face strokes his jaw. "You know that, right? You never have to do anything you don't want to."

Quentin closes his eyes. "He did it to you and Margo. Did you--no, you don't have to tell me. I shouldn't have asked. Never mind."

"We did," Eliot says. "We were just...we were just glad it was me, and not whatever his name was." 

Quentin opens his eyes again. "I'm sorry."

"Thank you," Eliot says. "I'm all right. Margo is too, I'm pretty sure. That wasn't the first time, anyway."

He stares at Eliot, who's doing amazing things to his Achilles tendons. "You and Margo used to fuck?"

Both Eliots hesitate. "We never really quit."

The Eliot massaging his scalp shrugs. "We haven't lately, though. Not since you."

"But you--is she okay with that?"

"You know all those fanfics where two people agree to do the friends with benefits thing, no romantic feelings, just their relationship is open to sex, but it turns out they catch feelings and there's pages and pages of angst?"

Did he ever. "Yeah."

"Okay. With Margo and me, it actually works that way. We're not in a relationship. We never have been." 

"So you're best, best friends." Quentin says. "And you fuck."

"She's given me the cure when I'm in a breakup, we go to Ibiza together, it's Tuesday, whatever. Do you need it to stop?"

Quentin's stomach flips over. _Once you can’t keep up, you’ll be discarded_.

"I think I need to think about it," Quentin says. "I never did the polyamory thing."

Eliot presses his thumbs into the sole of Quentin's foot. "I don't consider myself exactly polyamorous," he says. "I don't want a relationship with more than two people in it."

Was that him? Did he mean— "Then what--what's your thing?"

"I like groups," Eliot says. 

"Threesomes, generally," the other Eliot says. "More is fine. Two is fine. Margo's ridden with me before. She's curious about you."

"Curious, as in—"

"She's avid for details," Eliot says. "And I'm not the only one who finds you attractive."

The other Eliot rubs soft circles on his temples. "But if you don't want to, your speed is my speed."

Until he gets bored. 

"You tensed up." Eliot rotates Quentin's foot, stretching it out. "What did you just worry about?"

"It's nothing."

"That means you feel like you can't tell me," Eliot says. "Listen. I know I didn't exactly sit you down and have the talk before this. But we seem to be having it now, so let's do it. Ask me anything."

"I don't know what to ask."

"Ask anything you want. Ask something silly."

"Did you kiss your Eliot double?"

"I haven't yet," Eliot says.

"Would you like me to?" Eliot asks.

"Which one is you?" Quentin asks. "You're both alike, sometimes you move exactly the same way, you finish each other's sentences--which one is you?"

"Both," The Eliot massaging his feet says. "He's a construct, but right now, your head is in my lap. I can feel everything he feels. When he touches you, it's because I'm touching you. When he's kissing you, it's because I'm kissing you."

Eliot can feel everything his double feels. He reaches up to run a featherlight finger around this Eliot's ears, and Eliot stops massaging his feet to suck in a breath.

Quentin looks up at the construct caressing his throat. It's Eliot's face--same deep cleft in his chin, the same square cornered jaw, the same warm brown eyes, the same gentle, attentive gaze.

He turns to look at Eliot. "How?"

"You need special materials and a few days of ritual magic. You have to give it your DNA--the ancients thought it was blood, tears and seed--and then you have to do a ritual to link your consciousness into its body. Then I had a few days to practice operating it."

"That's a lot of work for a threesome."

Eliot slides his hands up to Quentin's knees. "It was your fantasy. Could have timed it better, though."

"But I like this," Quentin said. "This feels good. I know it's not the raunchy hot sex you planned on, but I could get used to two of you."

Eliot smiles. "We can have raunchy hot sex later. Or cuddly sweet sex--I've never had a cuddly sweet sex threesome before."

Because Eliot isn't a cuddly sweet sex person. He likes things that are wilder than that. More exciting than Quentin, probably.

"You're worrying again." Eliot draws gentle fingers up Quentin's throat. "Ask."

Quentin tries to say _no, it's okay,_ or _I was thinking about something else,_ but when he opens his mouth no sound will come out. He tries to shake his head, but Eliot bends over, looking at Quentin.

"It'll just eat at you if you don't tell me. Is it bad?"

Quentin nods. "Maybe."

"Does it scare you?"

"Yes."

"Okay. I'm listening."

He looks up at the other Eliot, the carefully made construct, and he can't tell it's a copy. He raises his head to look at Real Eliot, who's carefully massaging each of his toes, and he can barely get his voice above a whisper. "Am I good enough?"

Eliot nods. "Yes. You are good enough."

"But will you get bored if I don't—"

"Ah," Eliot sweeps tender hands into Quentin's hair. "Did Mayakovsky tell you I was a pervert because I'm empty inside?"

Quentin sucks in a gasp. "He said that to you?"

"Yes. he has a very Krafft-Ebing view of sex." Eliot says. "But yes. I have my kinks. I like threesomes. I like taking care of you. I have a deep interest in sexual fantasies. I like to try things out. I like bondage--on you and on me. I love your exhibitionism kink, and I fucking love it when Margo fucks me senseless with her hot pink strap on dildo. So he's right: I am a freak. Did I say anything you really didn't like?"

No. No, he didn't. That wasn't a bad list. Sure he'd never done most of it, but— "Can I watch Margo peg you?"

Eliot grins. "Watch? Sweetheart, she wanted to know if you'd be into us all getting together. She will let you have a turn with Sparkle Motion if you want that."

Quentin stares, and then busts out laughing. "She called it Sparkle Motion?"

"Don't knock it till you've tried it. Margo has her stroke game down." Eliot's gaze drops from Quentin's face to his cock, now showing interest. "You like the idea?"

"I have a mental picture," Quentin says, and smiles up at Eliot, who's massaging his ears. "Several, actually."

Eliot's mouth curls up as he gives Quentin that intent, focused look that makes him forget everything that isn't Eliot and the things he makes Quentin feel.

"Tell me."

.o.O.o.

It isn't right that Eliot can make him fucking helpless just by kissing him, but here he is, lying naked in Eliot's bed while they take turns rolling him left and then right and kissing him until he's dazed and lost, one after the other, kissing him sweet, kissing him deep, asking him _do you want her?_ And smiling down at him as he says _yes, yes, I want her, I want—_

"Tell me what you want when you look at her," Eliot says right in his ear, and even Eliot's breath along the sensitive edge of his ears makes Quentin ache.

"I want to kiss her," Quentin gasps, and he's given another kiss as a reward. Light fingertips skim over his skin, down his ribs and circling back up to play over his nipples, and he doesn't know who's touching him any more. "If she wants to."

"Trust me, she does," Eliot says. "And what else do you want?"

"I want to slip my hand down her panties and she's so wet and slick I have to lick my fingers after and she tastes—fuck, so good—"

Eliot groans and kisses him again. "You want to eat her pussy?"

"Fuck, yes." Quentin moans, and Eliot drags his nails down Quentin's thigh and he's so fucking hard his cockhead's half poking out of its sheath. "I want to do it while you fuck me."

"Oh fuck, Quentin," Eliot says. "What else?"

"Everything," Quentin can't even see straight any more. "Anything she wants, however she wants. I want to watch you with her--can I watch you?"

"Yes. You want to watch her fuck me?"

The vision in his mind makes him twitch and groan. "Does she do it hard?"

"Yes."

"Did she tell you about this?" Quentin asks. "Did she tell you what she wanted too?"

"She told me, long before the cuddle party, that she wanted to take turns kissing you--me, then her. Just like this," Eliot says, and the other Eliot takes a turn. "She wanted us to strip you down and take you apart. She wanted to watch your face as you came on my cock."

That's so fucking hot he might die. "Oh fuck, Eliot. Yes. Yes."

"And she wants to tie you up."

Quentin whimpers and tries to remember to breathe. Eliot kisses him like he wants to eat Quentin alive, and the other Eliot turns Quentin’s head and tilts it toward him, looking into his eyes.

"She's going to be so happy when I tell her. I can tell her, right?"

"Fuck. Yes. Tell her," Quentin gasps.

“Oh, sweetheart. Your face, right now...you’re already so gone. It’s gorgeous. Can you see me?”

“Yes.”

“Watch.” Eliot rises up on his hands, and Eliot grabs his double and pulls him in by the neck for a kiss.

Oh fuck, it's beautiful. They're in perfect sync, kissing openmouthed, tongues meeting just before their lips close together and Quentin's in awe at the sight of them. It's so perfect, so fucking erotic that his throbbing cock swells again and fuck he's so hard he might come just from a touch.

Eliot pulls away, his face dreamy. "I would so fuck my double." 

Then they both turn and look at him like they're hungry.

"But you first." 

Oh fuck. Fuck. "I'll come if you touch me," Quentin says. "It's too much, I can't."

"We can't?" Eliot says. "Not even a little lick?"

"Oh god, Eliot."

"Your cock looks so hard. What if we—"

They bend down, their heads hovering over his chest, and two tongues flick over his nipples before lips close over the rigid points and suck. The sound that escapes Quentin's throat breaks into a sob. "Eliot, Eliot, fuck oh my god." 

The sensation is so intense. Quentin lifts his chin and moans at what they're doing to him, now nibbling at the tips with gentle, sharp little teeth. It makes him shudder and groan and his skin flinches as they touch him, light enough to tickle but he's so aroused it just becomes another pleasure. They touch him everywhere they can reach, avoiding his tight, aching cock.

"Tell us how you want us to fuck you."

"Both ends," Quentin says. "Pull my hair. Fuck me hard—Oh! Fuck, fuck—"

They bite, pinching his nipples between their teeth. They pull. And Quentin's going out of his mind, it's so good. It hurts, but even pain makes his mind spin.

And they never come anywhere near his cock, even when they let go and go back to wrecking him with kisses that take him into a deep, velvet place where he feels like he's high. 

"You want to fuck?"

"Yes. Yes. Please—"

"Anything you want, sweetheart."

They help him get on his hands and knees, and Quentin lets his head drop down as Eliot settles behind him and pushes his ass cheeks apart. In front of him, Eliot curls his fingers against Quentin's scalp, grabbing his hair and lifting him up, the thick head of Eliot's cock nudging against Quentin's lips. 

Fuck. Quentin opens his mouth and pulls against Eliot's grip to take more, groaning as Eliot pushes one finger up his ass. His cock clenches in time with his resistance and he sucks the tip of Eliot's cock and this is really happening, and it's even better than the way he imagined it as he fucked into the tight circle of his fist, all alone and wanting Eliot so bad he dreamed about him at night. 

"You're so good, sweetheart. So good," Eliot says, and Quentin moans and tries to take more of his cock in his mouth, bobbing and sucking on the head. "We're going to take good care of you. We're going to fuck you just how you like it. Relax. Open up…"

Two fingers now, and Eliot pushes them deep, sliding them in and out of his ass and it feels so good. Eliot holds his head still and fucks his mouth, just a little, and Quentin wants him to push deep. He wants Eliot's cockhead in his throat and pushing deeper, using his mouth to get off.

"More," he says, and he gets another inch sliding on his tongue, and the shivering delight of Eliot's fingers going deep and pressing gently against that spot inside him that makes every nerve light up and shoot sparks.

"You are the most gorgeous—fuck, Q. You amaze me. More?"

"More," Quentin answers around a mouthful of cock.

"You're perfect," Eliot says, and the praise makes Quentin want to cry. Eliot pulls his head back and pushes his cock deep into Quentin's mouth. It cuts off his air and his throat shudders as he gags. 

"Too much?" Eliot asks as Quentin gasps for breath.

"Do it again."

Eliot stuffs his cock back into Quentin's mouth as Eliot uses three fingers on him. He presses his thumb against Quentin's perineum, pinching them together as he finger fucks him open. Quentin cries out, and the noise is muffled against Eliot's cock.

Dimly he remembers Eliot talking about cuddly, sweet sex--gentle kisses and slow lovemaking and everything Quentin should probably want. But he doesn't. He wants this intense, transcendent arousal. He wants Eliot's fingers fisted in his hair. He wants the panicked, mind blowing feeling of choking on Eliot's cock, the stretch and surrender of Eliot opening him up for the biggest dick he's ever seen...and the loving, adoring praise Eliot showers him with. He wants Eliot to tell him he's beautiful and perfect as Quentin lets pure lust take over and does all the abandoned, dirty things he and Eliot want— 

—because he's a freak too, and it feels like he just slid everything into place.

He looks up at Eliot as he's staring down, awed and horny and just a little bit lost. He slips his fingers out of Quentin's ass and Quentin groans as the big, thick head of Eliot's cock pushes inside him.

Eliot slows down and watches Quentin take it like he's looking at something beautiful. Quentin closes his lips over Eliot's cock and sucks, slurping and grunting and Eliot's mouth falls open, his eyelids flutter shut, and he grabs a fresh handful of Quentin's hair and their cocks slide deeper, pushing inside Quentin and filling him up.

Eliot can feel everything his double feels--every slide of Quentin's tongue, the instinctive clench of his ass, the sensation twinned and strumming along Eliot's nerves--Quentin imagines it and groans. His cock bobs and bounces, needing to rub against something slippery and hot, aching to be touched, so sensitive that when Eliot angles his cock so he dives deeper into Quentin's ass the pressure of Eliot's cock sliding along his prostate, barely rubbing it, sends thrills along the whole length of his dick. It's so good, and when Eliot watches Quentin's expression as he pushes his cock into Quentin's throat again, he knows he's going to come just from this--that Eliot can drive him so deep and hard that he'll come for his cock.

He can't breathe. His throat spasms, trying to dislodge Eliot's cockhead, but he gazes up at Eliot, who draws back and thrusts deep to the sound of Quentin gagging and choking. He lets Quentin breathe and swallow, smiles, and when Quentin opens his mouth wide, he lets Quentin take as much as he can handle.

"Fucking perfect," Eliot says. "What did I do to deserve you? Suck me...so good. So tight--I want to come in your mouth. Can I come in your mouth?"

He pulls his cock out so Quentin can answer yes, and he caresses Quentin's cheek so tenderly it makes Quentin gasp. He's ruined. Eliot grabs him just at the bend of his hips and fucks him, steady and deep and it's devastating to feel Eliot touch him like some precious, treasured thing while he's pounding him so hard it jars his bones.

"Yes. Eliot, oh god come in my mouth, I want it—"

"Suck. That's so good. Gonna fuck you—"

And then both of Eliot's cocks are filling him up, moving in perfect unison, deep in his mouth and all the way up his ass and Quentin feels it in his thighs, in the small of his back, and jolting all the way along his cock he's gonna come, and Eliot's choking him again and it's so perfect when Eliot's face screws up in that so good it hurts tension just as his orgasm pushes him higher, so high he holds his breath and then lets it out in loud groans of relief. His cock jerks in Quentin's mouth, spilling salty, bitter come on his tongue and he sucks as Eliot fucks him hard, fast, filling the air with his voice and Quentin can't hold on, he can't.

"Come I'm gonna come I'm gonna--Eliot! Fuck, fuck—"

Eliot watches him lose it. It feels so deep, so completely overwhelming--it pounds out of him with tight spurts and he blanks out as the tension lets him go--when Eliot comes deep in his ass it's exactly how it's supposed to be, and Eliot makes an amazed sound and falls onto Quentin's back, breathing hard as he wraps his arms around Quentin. They collapse onto the bed and Eliot slips in to hold Quentin in his arms. 

Quentin still can't think right. But he's in the most perfect place, caught between Eliot and Eliot, who hold him close and kiss him and take a moment to watch him come back to the world. He's drowning in euphoria, all his pieces scattered after Eliot broke him.

Every kiss puts a tiny piece back. Every beautiful word Eliot says-- _amazing, perfect, mind-blowing, hot_ \--brings him together again.

"You came on my cock. Fuck, Q. You're ruining me. You—"

Eliot has no more words. He kisses Quentin's forehead, his eyelids, along the bones of his cheeks and jaw and finally his mouth, light as air and sighing. "No one ever made me feel the way I feel with you."

The final piece snaps back into place, and Quentin kisses Eliot, hands in his hair. "Eliot."

"Q. Do you feel it too?"

Quentin nods. "Yes."

"Everything about you feels so right," Eliot whispers. "I should probably be scared."

"Me too."

Eliot snuggles up behind him and Quentin's never felt safer in his entire life then he feels right now, sandwiched between them.

"Are you?" Eliot asks, smoothing Quentin's hair away from his ear. "Are you afraid?"

"No," Quentin says. "Not when you're here."


End file.
